‘The hell are you doing, Frank?’ Rebus said, hands in front of him, palms facing the oncoming figure.
‘I could kill you, you know. You said so yourself — a man filled with rage.’
‘Unlike Jimmy, you mean?’ Rebus nodded as if in understanding, then flung out his left hand, wrapping it around Hess’s wrist, twisting until the knife dropped to the floor. He took a step forward, his mouth close to the old man’s ear.
‘You don’t ride a bike, though,’ he said in a quiet voice, before turning and leaving the house.
He entered the close. A couple of old bicycles, one of them dating back to childhood by the look of it. A small rear garden. More junk: rotting wooden doors; a makeshift cloche constructed from discarded window frames in which only weeds seemed to be thriving; old car tyres and hubcaps. In one corner stood a small shed, bought not too many years back judging by its condition. He yanked open the door and peered in. A rotary lawnmower gathering cobwebs; boxes of tools; garden implements hanging from nails. No motorbike. He closed the door and stalked back to his car, checking his phone for signal as he drove. When he gained a single bar, he stopped and called Creasey.
‘You need a search warrant for Frank Hess’s house. And you need to question the grandson.’ He paused. ‘Grandson and grandfather both,’ he corrected himself.
‘And why is that, John?’ Creasey’s voice was in danger of breaking up. The single bar was fluttering.
‘I’ll explain when I see you. Just get on it.’ He ended the call and continued driving, finding a space outside The Glen. He walked in as Cameron was finishing mopping the floor.
‘Careful you don’t slip,’ the barman warned him.
‘I never slip, son, which doesn’t stop me falling on my arse sometimes. Question for you: does Jimmy Hess own a motorbike?’
‘No.’
‘You sure?’
‘Positive.’
‘He has all the accoutrements.’
Cameron was nodding. ‘That’s because he sometimes borrows Callum’s.’
‘And who the hell is Callum?’
‘Him and his dad run Torries farm. Mad keen on bikes is Callum, though you’ll mostly find him on an ATV.’ He saw Rebus’s blank look. ‘You’d probably call it a quad bike. Handy for getting around the fields.’
‘So Torries farm, how do I find it?’
Cameron started a complicated explanation, but Rebus cut him off.
‘Easier if you come with me.’
‘But we’re opening—’
‘Do what the man says.’
They turned their heads towards the voice. May Collins was standing in the doorway behind the bar, drying her hands on a cloth. Her eyes were on Rebus.
‘Dad says you paid him a visit. Looks to me like you’ve got the scent of something, so what are you waiting for?’ She made a shooing motion with her fingers.
‘I’ll grab my jacket,’ Cameron said.
In the brief time he was gone, Collins and Rebus maintained eye contact without a word being exchanged between them. But there was a faint smile on Collins’ lips as Cameron squeezed past her, shrugging his arms into his denim jacket.
‘Good luck,’ were her parting words as the two men left the bar.
It was a twenty-minute drive, east at first and then winding inland. The farm’s main compound lay down a rutted track, Rebus taking it at speed. It was a hire car after all. At the sound of the approaching engine, a young man wearing a blue boiler suit appeared in the yard from one of the barns.
‘That’s Callum,’ Cameron said. Rebus stopped next to a muddy quad bike and got out. Cameron and Callum were shaking hands and exchanging greetings by the time he reached them.
‘I’m John Rebus, Samantha’s dad,’ he said by way of introduction.
‘Sorry for your loss,’ the young man said. He was brawny and red-cheeked, with wild hair and a no-nonsense manner. ‘What brings you out here?’
‘You’re friends with Jimmy Hess?’
‘Since school.’
‘He borrows your bike sometimes?’
Callum gave a quizzical look. ‘He does, aye.’
‘When was the last time that happened?’
‘I’d have to think.’
‘Recently, though? Just over a week back?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Did he say why he needed it?’
‘Jimmy just likes to hit the road sometimes, let off a bit of steam. His grandad’s not the easiest man to live with.’
‘I know I couldn’t do it,’ Cameron confirmed.
Rebus turned to him. ‘You don’t need to, though, do you? Frank Hess hardly ever visits the pub.’
‘Never, actually,’ Cameron corrected him. ‘Says it’s because he’s not a man for the drink, yet if you visit the house...’
‘What?’
‘Plenty whisky bottles, and Jimmy’s definitely not a fan of malts.’
Rebus focused his attention on the farmer again. ‘So how long did Jimmy have the bike for?’
‘Just the one day.’
‘Day and night?’
‘Being on a bike at night is a joy. You don’t need a destination, not up here. The drive is everything.’
‘If you thought about it, you could get me the exact date?’ Rebus persisted.
‘Yes.’
‘And when he brought the bike back, how did he seem?’
Callum looked from Rebus to Cameron and back again. ‘Wait a sec, this is my mate you’re talking about.’
‘And you’re going to be talking about him a lot more, not to me but to a murder inquiry.’
Callum was shaking his head, while Cameron looked stunned. Rebus’s phone was vibrating in his pocket. He lifted it out.
‘You get a signal all the way out here?’
‘Mast over that way.’ Callum pointed towards a distant hill.
Rebus pressed the phone to his ear, turning away from both young men. ‘Yes, DS Creasey, what can I do for you?’
‘You know search warrants don’t come ten a penny? I need to convince my boss to convince a judge — which means you need to convince me.’
‘Best done face to face — where are you now?’
‘Just past Lairg, heading north.’
‘Thing is, as soon as Jimmy Hess’s grandad talks to him, we’ve got a problem. Anything that could be evidence is going to get ditched. And your way takes time, Robin.’
‘John...’
But Rebus had already made up his mind.
Having dropped Cameron at the pub, he headed back to Frank Hess’s house and tried the door. Locked now. He rang the bell, but there was no answer. Peered through the letter box. No sign of the crash helmet or jacket. Cursing under his breath, he stalked down the close and into the garden. There was a door to the kitchen, but it was locked too. The window was grimy, but he could see in. The carving knife lay on the worktop. The drawer it had been taken from gaped open. A frying pan on the stove and pots and dishes in the sink. Two mugs on the drop-leaf table. No sign of life.
He stepped back and stared at the upstairs windows. Both had their curtains closed. He headed to the shed and opened it, started rummaging, then decided it would be easier if he shifted the lawnmower. He dragged it out and got to work, tossing tools behind him to make more space. Boxes of screws, nails of odd sizes, most of them rusted, hooks and pieces of wire and old three-pin plugs. Plastic flowerpots, rolls of twine, cans of oil...
He noticed that the workbench had a drawer. It was stuck shut, so he left it. But having gone through the last box, he had nothing to show for his efforts. Sweat was causing his shirt to cling to his back. He checked that his inhaler was in his pocket, just in case. Then he looked at the drawer and decided to give it another go. This time he used a large screwdriver, wedging it into a gap. Some of the wood began to splinter, but the drawer moved out a fraction. He tried again; more movement. He gripped the sides of the drawer in both hands and—